Unstuck
by E350
Summary: After an attempt to trap Bill in the rift goes horribly wrong, Wendy is unstuck in time and space. As the Pines family endeavour to bring her back to the present, she finds herself caught in an ancient conspiracy surrounding a mythical figure called 'The Warrior of the Red Mare' - a warrior that she will have to become. Rated for violence and themes. Wendip.
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

 _Dance on the wind,  
Through space and time I swirl,  
The lady of the worlds,  
Don't hold me down…  
\- Ailin Kennedy/Gavin Dunne, 'Lady of Worlds'_

 _Only the dead have seen the end of war. – George Santayana_

 _Inkerman, the Crimea, 1854_

Soldiers in red wrestled desperately with soldiers in green on the bleak, windswept plain, and nobody quite knew why.

Private Wyndham clutched his rifle, trying to bite down his terror as he stood in the earthworks defending his regiment's camp. He had never wanted to be here, although he doubted any sane man ever would. As far as he had been concerned, the army was just a way out of seven years in prison, not a chance for his sentence to be upgraded to execution courtesy of a Russian bullet. Sweat caked his hands and face, terrible pains and aches wracked every part of his body and fear underlined his bloodshot eyes.

Whoever said war was glorious had obviously never been there.

"Hold fire!" he heard an officer bellow, "Wait for the right moment!"

Wyndham ground his teeth and waited. Just yards away, the Russians were charging, bayonets fixed. They were so close that the British soldier could make out their faces. Many of them looked far too young to be frontline soldiers – he supposed he'd looked like that, once upon a time.

 _Christ, this was never supposed to happen_.

"Two hundred yards!" bellowed the officer, "First rank, fire!"

There was a terrible cacophony, and the Russians vanished behind a massive plume of smoke. Wyndham heard their cries.

"Second rank, take aim!"

Now it was his turn.

He lifted and aimed his rifle, whispering a quick prayer to whatever divinities could hear that they'd stop the enemy advance, that he'd be safe. Kill or be killed. _Him or me._

"Second rank, fire!"

Wyndham pulled the trigger. The rifle recoiled painfully into his shoulder – saltpetre and sparks flew into his face. He winced.

Bursting out of the smoke came the Russian line – clad in greatcoats and spiked helmets that gave the impression that they were taller than they actually were. A Russian soldier lunged for him, musket raised and ready to stab – brown hair, blue eyes, freckles, _my god he's not even an adult yet…_

Training kicked in. Stab. Twist. Pull. Kill or be killed.

The Russian boy fell into the dust and mud, landing at Wyndham's feet. The British soldier had no time to react, entering back into the melee. A swing of the rifle butt, a soldier goes down. Another thrust and stab, another man dies. An errant shot, and somebody's son is gone.

What the hell was this war being fought for again? Wyndham had no idea.

Something heavy collided with the back of Wyndham's head. He fell – his shako flew off and landed in the mud, quickly trampled into ruin. Wyndham rolled over in an attempt to recover – he found himself staring down the barrel of one of those new-fangled American pistols, a Russian officer standing over him. A bodyguard of four Russians stood next to him, their comrades fanning out to keep the melee away from their commander.

"I will ask you once," said the officer – his accent marked him as a German, or perhaps an Austrian – "Where is the Warrior of the Red Mare?"

Wyndham tilted his head.

"The _what?_ "

The German cocked the revolver, scowling.

"Don't play dumb with me, boy," he snapped, "She's been sighted around here, in this camp. The von Streichmann family have been hunting her for a long time, and there are dues we want her to pay."

"I don't have a bloody clue what you're talking about!" said Wyndham.

Von Streichmann grimaced.

"Shame," he said.

He began to squeeze the trigger.

There was a bang, and the pistol was thrown off target, von Streichmann clutching his shoulder and yowling. A pistol was hurled from somewhere in the melee, slamming into the officer's face and knocking him off his feet. His four guards turned their muskets at the assailant.

Wyndham couldn't quite make out the figure. The man – and it _had_ to be a man, as there weren't a lot of women around Sevastopol, save for nurses – was dressed in a cloak that concealed his face. He carried a lumberjack's axe in one hand and what looked like a baton in the other. Wyndham could just about see strands of red hair emerging from his hood.

A Russian soldier – a sergeant – bellowed a command in Russian and raised his musket. The cloaked figure immediately darted forwards, grabbing the musket at twisting it upwards just as it was fired, the bullet flying harmlessly off into the air. He then snatched the musket and swung it around, striking the sergeant in the face and sending him spiralling to the ground.

The other three Russians charged with their bayonets, aiming to overpower their strange enemy. The figure ducked – a bayonet nicked the top of her cloak and pulled it off.

Oh, thought Wyndham. It _was_ , in fact, a woman.

A girl – she couldn't have been more than a teenager – gazed fiercely at her three opponents with green eyes, grinding her teeth. She quickly jumped to her feet, swinging the button up into the chin of one of the Russians. Before his comrades could respond, she swung the handle of the axe around the second soldier's leg, quickly tripping him up and flipping him over.

The third soldier roared in frustration and made a second attempt at a bayonet strike. She dodged nimbly to the side, dropping her axe in the process. She curled her now free arm into a fist and swung it into the soldier's chest, winding him and preventing him from blocking her baton swing into his face. He too fell.

And yet she had killed none of them.

The mysterious figure turned around, brushing herself off.

"You alright, man?" she asked – her accent clearly American – as she offered a hand.

"…yeah, alright," nodded Wyndham, swallowing as best he could with his dry throat, "What the hell just happened?"

"We've got 'em on the run!"

A cheer rang out through the British line as the Russians began to fall back. Several of the redcoats immediately reloaded their rifles, aiming at the retreating mass. One of them came over, bayonet fixed.

"I'll see you in hell, Ruskie," he snarled, raising his rifle and preparing to bayonet one of the unconscious Russians.

The girl grabbed his rifle, shooting him a fierce glare.

"Not on my watch," she snapped.

"Oh yeah?" demanded the soldier, "And who the hell are you to…"

He trailed off as he looked the girl in the face.

"Good God, y-you're the Warrior of…yes ma'am, absolutely ma'am, I'll get back to it!"

The soldier quickly moved away.

"Who are you?" asked Wyndham, narrowing his eyes, "Why's everyone so interested in you?"

The woman smiled humourlessly. Thunder seemed to be building up around her and she began to glow blue.

"Me?" replied the girl, "My name is Wendy, and I'm just trying to get home."

There was a rumble, and the glow became brighter.

"That's all," she shrugged.

There was a crack and Wyndham was thrown back. When he recovered, Wendy was gone.

Wyndham shook his head, rubbing his eyes and trying to process what he'd seen.

"Wyndham! Get on your feet! We've still got a trench to hold!" bellowed a sergeant, gesturing animatedly towards him.

Wyndham shook his head, climbing to his feet. He'd just have to think later. Perhaps he'd have to write it down, if he lived.

He did, in the end, survive. He did, in the end, write it down – just one of hundreds, soldiers and civilians, who had encountered the Warrior of the Red Mare.

Her story began months ago, in the far future…

* * *

AN: Well, it's great to be back! My holiday is over, my college schedule has slowed down significantly and I actually have time to write. Fantastic! Hopefully I can update _Over the Hills and Far Away_ soon as well, but for now, here's a totally new story!

So if you like action, drama, time travel, me torturing characters I like and dodgy temporal science, please stay on this line. Let's get this show on the road!


	2. Chapter One

First attempt at Ford (at least post-AToTS), so please bare with me there. My general rule is, if I can't imagine J.K. Simmons saying it, bin it.

* * *

 **Chapter One**

In the July of 2012, Ford Pines had had a Eureka moment.

It had come to him in the early hours of the morning, as he had examined some of his old notes in Journal 1 in his lab under the Mystery Shack. He had been wracking his mind for a way to deal with the dream demon Bill Cipher, but he couldn't think of anything permanent. But at about five in the morning, he had chanced on an old scribble that mentioned the possibility of time travel, theorising on whether or not the portal could be used for that purpose. As he'd read it, a lightbulb had come on in his head. He'd immediately done the mathematics – and within a few hours, he knew his plan was feasible.

" _I have it!_ " he bellowed, bursting from his lab and into the Shack gift shop, " _I know how to beat him!_ "

He laughed as he ran into the kitchen, darting past his brother Stan at the table. The twin wearily looked up from his coffee.

"Come on, Ford, it's too early in the morning for this," he grunted.

"But I have it, Stanley!" bellowed Ford, gesticulating wildly, "I think I can banish Bill Cipher!"

"Yeah, yeah, let me know when you can banish the IRS," said Stan, going back to his coffee.

Ford turned, leaning over the table. There was a glint in his eye – Stan distinctly did not like it.

"Stanley, I'll need an extra pair of hands," he said, "I need…"

"Oh no you don't," snapped Stan, "I'm not getting involved in this. Not after _last_ time."

Ford grimaced.

"Fine, I don't need you," he snapped, "I'll get someone else."

He turned to walk away.

"Leave the kids out of this, Stanford," demanded Stan, "Got it?"

Ford turned back around, narrowing his eyes a little.

"Whatever you say, Stanley," he said.

He tucked a hand behind his back and crossed his fingers.

* * *

"Dipper, my boy!" said Ford, walking into the gift shop, "Want to banish Bill Cipher into the void outside of space-time?"

" _Do I?!_ "

Dipper Pines jumped to his feet, excitement in his eyes. He rubbed his hands together and danced in one place, ignoring the playful giggle this elicited from his twin sister.

"Anything you want, Great Uncle Ford, I'm ready!" he exclaimed, "What do you..."

"Shh!"

Ford knelt down, putting a hand on his grand nephew's shoulder.

"Good to see you're eager, Dipper, but Stan can't know about this," he whispered, "We need to take this away from the Shack."

Dipper's eyes shifted from left to right. Mabel was laying next to the window, drawing on a sheet of paper, and Soos was propping up a shelf on the right. Wendy had not yet turned up for work.

"You know where my bunker is, Dipper?" asked Ford.

Dipper nodded.

"You have the..." he began.

Ford tapped the breast pocket of his jacket and smirked.

"Let's do this," said Dipper, grinning.

* * *

It had not been a good morning for Wendy Corduroy.

It had started when her father, the hulking lumberjack known as Manly Dan, had knocked a support off the roof with his head, caving in half of the living room. This had woken her younger brothers early, who immediately set to work cheerfully helping their father fix the house. Very loudly. At six in the morning.

Suffice it to say, she was not in a very good mood when she began to bike over to her job at the Mystery Shack.

Still, it wasn't a _bad_ day, weather-wise. The sky was clear, it was neither too hot or too cold, the birds were singing, the early morning sunrise illuminated the black sedan pulling out in front of her bike...

 _Wait, what?!_

Wendy slammed on the brakes, but her front wheel still collided with the back door of the car. Thankfully, the vehicle had stopped.

The window was rolled down. The man that now gazed rather pointedly at Wendy was well-dressed – he wore a navy blue suit sans tie, a pair of dark, trendy shades and slicked back silver hair. Everything about him screamed 'wealthy douche.'

"Do you mind, miss?" spat the man.

"Geez, sorry," replied Wendy testily, "Not my fault you pulled out in front of me, dude."

"Dude?" spluttered the man, " _Dude?_ My name is Alexander von Streichmann! I come from an esteemed family of Prussian nobility, and I demand a maxim of..."

He trailed off, narrowing his eyes.

"...have we met?" he asked, tilting his head.

Wendy resisted the urge to back away from the unnerving aristocrat.

"Uh...no, not really," she replied, "My family are lumberjacks, man. Why would we have met some kind of Russian rich dude?"

" _Prussian,_ " snarled Streichmann, grinding his teeth, "We are _Prussian_. And I am _sure_ I know who you are!"

Wendy shook her head.

"Look, I'm outta here," she said, "I've gotta get to work. You get over yourself or something, alright?"

She cycled off, away from the main road and into the forest. Streichmann shook his head and wound up his window.

He waited until his driver started the car again before reaching into his suit jacket and producing an old picture.

"The von Streichmanns will have you yet, Red Mare," he said, smirking.

The picture was of Wendy, sitting in a concrete office under the guard of an SS soldier. It was dated to 1942.

* * *

Even with Ford at his side, Dipper found entering the bunker unnerving.

Partially it was the knowledge that the dreaded shapeshifter remained in cryogenic storage in a tube in the lab, but the whole complex seemed to have a dark, oppressive atmosphere. Every shadow seemed ready to jump out at him, every crevice seemed to hold a pair of eyes glaring at him.

Ford didn't seem to be letting it affect him, though, so Dipper took a deep breath and sucked it up.

They were in the lab, just before the caverns. Ford had taken out the captured rift and had attached it to some tubes, connecting them in turn to the old analogue computers in the room. He rubbed his hands as he switched them on.

"Alright!" he declared, "If my calculations are correct, and they should be, I'll be able to temporarily open the rift with that button."

He pointed to a small, unassuming black button on one of the consoles.

"What, no big red button?" quizzed Dipper.

"No," replied Ford, "Big red buttons create a psychological urge to press them. I need to keep hold of myself for this."

He waved his arm over to the consoles on the other side of the room.

"First we need to set the honey trap," he declared, "There's two switches on each side of the room – they operate generators. We'll need to turn them on at the same time. That'll run a massive electrical current to the rift. The amount of weird dimensional energy we'll unleash will be irresistible to a being like Bill."

"Got it, Great Uncle Ford," replied Dipper, walking over to his side of the room.

The idea seemed ingenious. What could go wrong, he thought?

What indeed.

* * *

Wendy cut through the forest, feeling her way through the trees and growth towards the Mystery Shack. She was already running late (not that she particularly cared) and it was getting hard to remember which way she was supposed to go in the thick woodlands.

"What the heck was that guy's problem?" she muttered to herself, "Why the heck would I have seen him..."

There was a sudden prick of static on her handlebars. She flinched, nearly falling off the bike.

"What in the..."

She climbed off the bike and looked around. She had arrived not far from the entrance to the Author's Bunker, and something strange was clearly afoot. After all, jolts of electricity erupting periodically from the grass was not common, even in Gravity Falls.

She furrowed her eyebrows, grabbed her axe from her belt and headed in the direction of the bunker.

* * *

"It's working!" exclaimed Ford.

The rift was reacting to the electricity spectacularly, spinning around in a fashion quite similar to the portal vortex. Dipper found the sight amazing – and more than a little terrifying.

"How do we know if it's attracting Bill?" he called.

"This is gonna draw attention from every demon for miles!" replied Ford, "Just trust me!"

"...and what if we get a demon we don't want?" asked Dipper, hesitantly.

Ford shrugged.

"We'll cross that bridge when it comes."

There was a sudden clang from outside the lab. Dipper jumped.

"That's him!" he exclaimed.

"Nope," replied Ford, "That's a _physical_ sound. Somebody just entered the bunker."

He furrowed his brow.

"I need to stay here and watch the rift," he barked, "Find out who that is. If it's someone you don't trust, you know what to do."

He pointed to Dipper's backpack. Dipper nodded, remembering the Memory Erasure Ray.

"I'll be right back," he said, running back down the bunker.

Ford nodded, turning back to the rift.

* * *

"Okay, Dipper," Dipper said to himself, creeping along the small tunnel to the bunker entrance, "Just point it in Gideon's face, or not-Gideon or whoever it is, pull the trigger and run back. Nice and easy. Don't get caught up, because that's a bad idea..."

He reached the door and took a deep breath.

"Alright, here we go Dipper," he said to himself, "Nice and-"

The door opened. Dipper screamed and flung the ray in the face of the intruder.

"Gideon back off I have a gun!" he bellowed.

There was a long silence.

"...Dipper?" said Wendy.

"Wendy!" exclaimed Dipper, lowering the ray, "What-what're you doing here?!"

"Dude, there is _lightning_ coming out of the _grass_ ," replied Wendy, "What exactly is going on here, Dip?"

"Dipper! I'm getting demon readings, I need you back here!" Ford called.

Dipper looked back down the tunnel and then back towards Wendy.

"Can you keep a secret?" he asked.

* * *

There was a knock on the door of the Mystery Shack. Stan groaned, tearing himself off of his seat and ambling towards the door. He opened it and put on his best 'grumpy old man' face.

"Tours don't start until ten," he grumbled.

"I'm not here for a tour," replied the wealthy-looking doorknocker, "My name is Alexander von Streichmann. I'm here about your cash..."

There was a sudden bang as the transformer blew up. Stan nearly jumped out of his skin.

"Yes, that's been happening quite a lot, so I've heard," said von Streichmann casually, "The radio said that there have been electrical fluctuations in the area..."

" _Stanford_ ," Stan growled.

* * *

"Dang it, Dipper, what part of 'tell no-one about the rift' don't you understand?" exclaimed Ford.

"There wasn't any time, Great Uncle Ford!" replied Dipper, "I had to get back! I swear, we can trust her!"

Wendy gazed at Dipper and Ford's project. The rift was starting to turn bright green, and the generators it was hooked up to were starting to groan from the strain.

"Okay, so...this is gonna trap Bill?" she asked.

"Ideally," replied Ford, "We throw him into the rift and then slam it shut behind him. Child's play. We just need to keep the flow under control..."

"Well, well, what do we have here?"

The room around them seemed to turn to a dull grey, save for the flowing electricity. A line began to fade into view on the wall, then two more that formed the shape of a triangle. Then there was a flash of light, and Bill was there.

"Six Fingers! Pine Tree! Playing with that old rift of yours, are you?" he said, his tone animated, "And Ice Bag! Man, still not over her, are ya, kid?"

" _Bill_..." groaned Dipper. Wendy suppressed the urge to chuckle.

"The game's up, Cipher!" declared Ford, holding his finger over the button, "You're going into the rift!"

"Oh really?" demanded Bill, crossing his arms, "Says who, Fordsie?"

"Says me," snarled Ford, "The current is perfect, the _schematics_ are perfect, and..."

"Are they, Ford?" replied Bill, "And who gave them to you?"

Ford stepped forward, narrowing his eyes. Dipper took his place over the button.

"What're you saying, Bill?" demanded Ford.

"When did you find this theory, Six Fingers?" asked Bill.

"This morning," replied Ford, "Five am."

"And what were you doing before you found it?" asked Bill, "What led to you finding it?"

"I..."

Ford trailed off.

"Oh no," he breathed.

"Uh...Ford? You okay, man?" asked Wendy.

"It's pretty hazy, ain't it Ford?" sneered Bill, "Almost like..."

His form turned red.

"... **a dream?** "

Ford's eyes widened in horror.

"Dipper!" he bellowed, turning to face his nephew, "Don't press that button!"

Dipper jumped in surprise. His finger went down.

There was a tremendous bang as both generators burst into flames and the consoles erupted into sparks. The small globe containing the rift shattered, the small temporal diversion turning into a wormhole the size of a fist. There was the sound of rushing wind.

Bill vanished, laughing as he faded away.

"The rift's out!" bellowed Ford, "We have to contain it again before it consumes us all!"

"Any ideas?!" exclaimed Dipper.

Ford pointed to the consoles.

"We've gotta shut it down, now!" he bellowed, "At least that way we can stop it from expanding!"

"What do I do?" demanded Wendy.

"Stay back!" shouted Ford, "I've got this!"

He leapt into action, racing towards the first of the consoles, which was now on fire. He took a deep breath and reached into the flames, wincing as he pulled the lever. There was another splutter of sparks and the console deactivated.

He turned to race to the other one, but his foot snagged on the chord. Down he went, smashing face first into the hard ground.

"I got it, Great Uncle Ford!" shouted Dipper, racing over to the second switch. As he did so, he passed close to the wormhole.

The wormhole seemed to react to him. Unbeknownst to the boy, it began to waft towards him, sparkling ominously.

"Dipper..." urged Wendy.

"Just a 'sec, Wendy!" replied Dipper, "Come on, where's the switch again?"

The wormhole began to shift, turning into what looked like a deformed arrow that was aimed at Dipper.

"Dipper, you've gotta move!" called Wendy.

"I've almost got it, hang on!" Dipper called back.

"No, I mean you've really..."

The bolt began to hum loudly. It seemed it would strike at any second.

Wendy acted.

She threw herself in front of Dipper, arms outstretched. The bolt flew towards her.

Dipper turned around.

"Wait...wait no!"

With a sickening electrical jolt, the rift collided with Wendy, coating her in strange energy. She winced and clutched her head. There was an otherworldly and terrifying roar.

"I gotcha!"

Ford reached out from the ground and grabbed the lever, yanking it towards him. The second console spluttered into inertia.

All was suddenly quiet, save for the sound of sparkling from the energy covering Wendy.

"Ford?" she gulped, "What...what just happened?"

"This could be bad," replied Ford, worry lining his features.

"Gr-Great Uncle Ford?" gulped Dipper, "She'll be fine, right?"

"You...I think you've absorbed the rift," said Ford, "Nobody's ever...I have no idea what's gonna..."

There was a low whirring sound, and Wendy began to glow white.

"Ford, what the heck is this?" demanded Wendy.

"Great Uncle Ford?" asked Dipper, clearly begging for an explanation from his idol.

" _Ah_ ," said Ford, "That's bad _._ Don't panic, but I _think_ you've been unstuck from space and time."

" _What?!_ " demanded Wendy, as the glow increased in intensity.

"Unstuck?" asked Dipper, "What...what does that mean?"

"Wendy," said Ford, "Wherever you end up, I need you to stay calm. I'll research this and..."

" _What do you mean 'wherever I end up?'_ " bellowed Wendy.

"You mean we're gonna lose her?" demanded Dipper.

"Dipper, I'm sorry, I didn't..."

The glow was near blinding now, and Wendy was finding it hard to hear.

"Wendy, listen!" shouted Dipper, "I'll get you back, I promise, don't..."

There was the sound of thunder and the sickening feeling of falling. Wendy couldn't see a thing through the void, but she closed her eyes anyway.

Suddenly, she felt herself land on something wooden with a painful thud.

She opened her eyes and found herself looking down the barrel of a gun.

She was on a wooden deck – about ten men in old fashioned red uniforms were holding their guns down on her. The sun beat down on them all, and she could feel the swell of the ocean underneath.

"Where...where am I?" she whispered.

"Make way! Admiral on deck!"

The soldiers parted to make room for a new figure – white haired and impeccably dressed in a blue dress uniform and bicorne, with one sleeve empty and one eye glazed over. The figure narrowed his eyes and looked down on her, clearly not amused.

"My name is Lord Nelson," the man snapped, "What the devil are you doing on my ship?"

* * *

AN: This is probably the least well-planned part of the story and it probably shows. Please tell me if I've made mistakes.

We'll be back with Dips and Fordsie very soon, and let's just say Ford isn't getting off lightly for this. We'll also get back with Stan and Alexander, and Mabel and Soos will get something to do. The next chapter will be set mostly-to-entirely in the past (and a shiny new donkey to whoever can guess when this bit is set), but after that I'll be devoting a nice meaty chunk to present-day problems.

In the meantime, let me know what I've done wrong and I'll see you next time!


	3. Chapter Two

Gravity Falls: Now with 10% more Horatio Nelson.

Guest review replies;

 **Guest:** Thanks, mate, that means a lot!

* * *

 **Chapter Two**

"Well? Speak up, woman!"

Wendy stared at the admiral, too confused to speak. The soldiers – or perhaps marines would be a better term – still trained their muskets down on her, waiting for her to do the wrong thing. Behind them, sailors were starting to gather round, quietly discussing their new guest.

"I... _what?_ " she finally blurted, "Where am I?"

"Don't play the fool with me!" snapped Nelson, "This is a British warship and you are a stowaway! State your business here!"

"Business?" replied Wendy, "I just..."

"Get her on her feet!"

A soldier and a very young officer strolled over, grabbing Wendy by the shoulders and forcing her to her feet.

"Hey! Get the heck away from..." began Wendy.

There was a click as the officer drew his pistol, held it to Wendy's head and cocked it.

"Put the gun down, midshipman!" barked Nelson, "She's already surrounded by marines, that's just excessive."

The midshipman lowered his gun sheepishly.

"Only trying to help, sir," he whimpered.

"And if I wanted it, I'd ask, Mr. Hathaway," replied Nelson, "As you were."

"Look, I don't know what happened, man!" said Wendy, "It's just-one minute I was in Ford's bunker and the next moment I'm in some kind of...historical re-enactment thing!"

"I assure you, ma'am," said Nelson curtly, "That this is no 're-enactment.' This is a real ship, about to go into battle, and I would appreciate it if you stopped playing games and tell me who, if anybody, sent you?"

"Sir!"

A balding officer raced out from behind the marines, briskly saluting as he arrived.

"The French fleet has entered into firing range, my lord!" he reported, "Your orders?"

"Excellent, Captain Hardy!" said Nelson, rubbing his hands together, "We'll have them yet. Signal the fleet – 'Nelson confides that every..."

"Sir, the woman?" quizzed Hardy, "We can't have her on deck..."

Nelson turned back to Wendy, having apparently momentarily forgotten her.

"Ah, right," he nodded, "I shall question you personally when this business is concluded. Corporal Denton, Private Johnson, take her below. Mr. Hathaway will join you when his business up here is concluded. Dismissed."

Two of the marines saluted and took hold of Wendy from Hathaway and the other soldier. As they began to drag her away, struggling all the while, Wendy called out.

"Wait! Just...what's the date?!"

Nelson put his arm behind his back, raising an eyebrow.

"It is the twenty-first of October, Eighteen Hundred and Five," he replied, "You are aboard the _Victory._ Now, kindly go below and let me fight this battle, yes?"

He turned around and walked away.

* * *

The hold was not a nice place.

Wendy sat on a bench in a damp, mouldy, smelly and rat-infested cell. Her only company was a particularly fat rat on the bench next to her, a few spiders and the two marines standing outside guarding the cell.

It was getting to be a rather bad day, all things considered.

There was a bang from somewhere in the ship. One of the marines jumped.

"Don't worry about it, Johnson," muttered the other – a corporal, "At this range, if you can hear it, it's ours. Calm down."

"Bloody 'ell, Denton, 'ow am I supposed to be calm?" shuddered Johnson, "This is me first battle, mate, I don't 'ave..."

"Panicking won't help, Johnson," replied Denton, "Besides, we're on guard duty in the lower deck – safest part of the ship, this is."

Johnson didn't look convinced. He took a deep breath and turned around.

"So, is you like some kinda spy for Boney, then?" asked Johnson, "Blimey, 'ave...'ave you _met_ Napoleon? What's 'e like?"

"Don't hero worship the enemy, Private," grunted Denton.

"Dude, I have _no idea_ what's going on," replied Wendy, "Last thing I remember was being in a bunker with Ford and Dipper."

She shook his head.

"Poor guy's probably tearing his hair out right now," she said, "I've gotta get back..."

Johnson titled his head.

"What the 'ell's a dude?" he asked, "That like colonial parlance or somethin'?"

"Ten hut!"

Both soldiers snapped to attention. Midshipman Hathaway strode into the room, arms behind his back. He glared at Wendy, narrowing his eyes – Wendy couldn't help but notice a very slight resemblance to a taller, thinner Gideon Gleeful.

"At ease, men," snapped Hathaway, "Lord Nelson wishes me to speak with the prisoner."

The two soldiers fell out of attention as the officer strode up to the bars of the cell, leaning against them.

"You know, madam, I can help you," he declared, "The admiral intends to have you charged as a stowaway and as a possible French spy."

"But I'm _not_ ," replied Wendy.

"A French spy, perhaps, but you _are_ a stowaway, in that you're not authorised to be aboard this ship," said Hathaway, "But if you were, say, an authorised member of the ship's company..."

Wendy narrowed her eyes.

"What are you saying?" she demanded.

"I can propose. Captain Hardy can officiate," sneered Hathaway, "I can get you away from the threat of the noose, and all I ask for is...a _companion_."

"Hardy won't go along with it, sir," muttered Denton.

"He'll have no choice," said Hathaway in an oily tone, "Provided, of course, you say yes."

He leant his head between the bars.

"What say you, madam?"

Wendy responded by punching him in the face as hard as she could.

Hathaway recoiled, screeching and holding his eye. His wails were so loud that he couldn't hear Denton and Johnson trying and failing not to laugh at him.

"Oh come on," snapped Wendy, "I didn't hit you _that_ hard."

"You...you _wench!_ " thundered Hathaway, "Damn you! Private, open the..."

He wailed again and clenched his head, screwing his eyes shut as he grinded his teeth.

"I reckon you broke 'im, ma'am," whispered Johnson.

" _Johnson_ ," growled Denton.

Hathaway broke into an unsettling grin and opened his eyes. Both Wendy and the marines recoiled – the midshipman's eyes were yellow.

"Oh, it's gonna be a while, huh Red?" sneered Hathaway, "I love time travel tense! It messes with people!"

"Sir?" gulped Denton.

" _Bill_ ," snarled Wendy.

"Got it in one!" replied Bill, "And I got you to thank for this, Wenders! Can I call you Wenders? I'm gonna call you Wenders. Point is, you're a temporal anchor, so I can follow you around the same way I follow Pine Tree and Shooting Star!"

Johnson snarled and aimed his musket at Bill.

"What're you, some kind of demon?" he demanded.

"Ooh, smart guy!" exclaimed Bill, "Too bad you've only got a few seconds left to live, otherwise I might be interested in ya!"

"A few seconds left to..."

There was a splintering crash as a cannonball burst into the deck. It slammed into Private Johnson, tearing right through his stomach and out the other side. As it disappeared through a wall, Johnson slumped to the ground, the majority of his abdomen missing.

"Jesus!" exclaimed Denton.

Wendy fought the urge to be sick as Bill laughed.

" _Maaaaan_ , that's gonna leave a mark!" he said, "Hate to be the cleaner tonight, I mean...jeez! That's kinda disturbing! Glad I don't have a gag reflex or I'd be on my fifth bag by now!"

"What...what do you want, Bill?" demanded Wendy.

"Get out of Hathaway, you little pri..." began Denton.

"I don't care about you, Denny," replied Bill, waving his hand dismissively, "Be happy, you still got ten years left. As for you, Red, I got three things to say. First of all, hi!"

He waved.

"Second of all, don't expect Pine Tree to work fast," he added, "He's got ninety-nine problems and I'm just one."

"Did you seriously just make that reference?" said Wendy, incredulously.

"What, dream demon can't keep up with pop culture?" replied Bill, "You wound me, Wenders. Third thing; I hope you like travelling, 'cause you're gonna do a lot of it over the next few months. You're literally a rift in time and space now. You're unstuck, kid, and you're about to get the most intensive history lesson in the world."

"Wait...so I'm gonna keep travelling in time?" quizzed Wendy.

"Yep!" said Bill, "Among other things! And I'll be watching every step of the way..."

Another cannonball burst into the deck, slamming into the door of the cell as Denton leapt out of the way. The door swung open – Wendy took her chance, racing out of the door and away from her captor and the demon.

"Wait!" she heard Denton exclaimed, "What the hell's going on?"

She raced to the ladder up onto the top deck, desperate to get away from Bill. Her mind raced – why was Bill here? Was he just taunting her? What did he mean by Dipper having problems?

She climbed onto the deck and froze.

The deck was a scene of terrible destruction. The _Victory_ was now alongside another ship – a French one, judging by the tricolour flying from the bow. Sailors were sprawled all over the ship, ignored by comrades who were desperate to keep her in fighting condition. A few officers – Captain Hardy among them – were carrying a limp form to another ladder. The man's face was covered by a handkerchief, but she could tell by the missing arm that it was Lord Nelson.

With a thunderous roar, the French ship fired. A cannonball flew right in front of Wendy – around her, more men fell. A dreadful cacophony of screams filled the air.

"Take it in, Ice Bag."

Wendy turned as Bill climbed up the ladder. His toothy grin was gone, replaced by a menacing smirk.

"By the time this is over," he declared, "You're not gonna have a inch of faith left in humanity. And that's where we get ya."

"You're wrong," whispered Wendy.

"Am I?" replied Bill, "Am I just? Well, we'll see."

There was a gunshot, almost like thunder, and Bill – no, _Hathaway_ fell. As he did so, Wendy found herself begging to glow again.

Denton clambered up the ladder. His eyes widened as he saw Wendy turning into light in front of him.

"This," he declared, "Has been a bloody strange day."

There was the sound of thunder and everything faded away. Wendy felt herself fall.

She landed on something soft and opened her eyes. She was lying in the grass on a hillside, the sun beaming down on her as clouds drifted gently by. There was no sign of the carnage of before – in fact, there was no sign of any civilisation at all. If Wendy could hazard a guess, she'd probably say that she was a long, long way into the past.

She sat up, breathing slowly. In the distance, she could see a campfire. Climbing to her feet, she decided to head that way.

"You're wrong, Bill," she declared to no-one in particular, "You're wrong."

She dusted herself off and walked away.

* * *

AN: Turns out war is violent. Who knew?


	4. Chapter Three

Sorry this is later, guys - I had a university scaling test, and then my Global teacher decided to liberate the heck out of my free time. Things are slightly quieter today, though, so I got something done.

Review replies;

 **Guest (1):** He's certainly up to no good...or _is he?_ Thanks for reading!

 **Guest (2):** I like to mix things up, as far as my ideas go. :) Thanks for reviewing!

* * *

 **Chapter Three**

"Damn it, Ford!" bellowed Stan.

Ford winced as his brother launched into a tirade as he opened the door. Before he could even get a word in, Stan was ranting about power failures and the transformer exploding and how he _knew_ that Ford was behind it.

"Stanley..."

"Do you know how much transformers cost? Soos isn't getting paid this week and it's all your fault..."

"Stanley..."

"...and if people find out that idiot poindexter secret brother blacked out half the town, I'm gonna be in a world of..."

" _Stanley..._ "

"...and I told you, _specifically told you_ , not to get the kids involved and now they have no power and that's..."

" _SHUT UP, GRUNKLE STAN!_ "

There was a long silence. Dipper had entered the shack and was standing in front of the door. He stared down Stan, shaking and with fists clenched.

The silence was cut by the squeaking of an opening door. All eyes fell on Soos and Mabel, who had opened the staff-only door on the other side of the gift shop and were peering in.

"Uh, sorry dudes," said Soos, "We just...well, that was a pretty epic scream there, Dipper..."

"What's going on?" asked Mabel.

Stan looked down at Dipper, noticing a few cuts and slight burns on his face. His nephew's eyes seemed to shimmer slightly despite the stern expression on his face. Stan narrowed his eyes, stepping towards his brother.

" _What. Happened?_ " he demanded.

"Well, we were trying to trap Bill between..."

Stan grabbed his brother by the collar and pulled him towards him. Soos and Mabel gasped.

" _You promised you wouldn't involve him, Stanford!_ " bellowed Stan.

"This was more important than promises, Stanley, this was..."

" _Nothing_ ," thundered Stan, " _Is more important than my family!_ "

He threw Ford to the ground and turned to Dipper.

"What happened?" he asked firmly.

"I-I'm sorry Grunkle Stan, I thought we could do it," replied Dipper, shakily, "We tried t-to use the-the rift..."

"Dipper, I told you not to tell him about..." began Ford.

Stan glared at him and he shut up.

"...we tried t-to-to trap B-Bill between dimensions but he-he tricked us and-and things went wrong and-and then she ab-absorbed the rift and then..."

"Wait, _she?_ " asked Mabel, "Has Bill been a girl this whole time?"

"Makes sense," nodded Soos, scratching his chin.

"No, not Bill," replied Dipper, "It-it was...it was...aw man, it's all my fault Stan, it's all my fault..."

He started to tear up. Stan sighed, knelt down and hugged his nephew.

"It's okay, kid, it's not your fault," he reassured, "It's my idiot brother's fault but it's not your fault. Just tell me what happened and we'll fix it, okay kid?"

"Fixing it? Fixing it would be a ludicrously difficult prop..." began Ford.

" _Ford!_ " snapped Stan.

Dipper didn't reply, continuing to cry into Stan's shoulder.

"C'mon, kid," soothed Stan, "You don't have to say anything, just gimme something to work with."

Dipper raised a hand and pointed at the counter.

There was another long silence.

"You mean... _Wendy?_ " gasped Mabel, "Grunkle Ford, what did you do?"

Stan looked at his brother. His expression was unreadable – this was enough to make Ford wince.

"Well Ford," he declared, "You messed this up. You can fix it."

Ford gulped.

"...that's not going to be easy, Stanley."

* * *

As it turned out, the camp wasn't especially inviting, as it was full of Romans.

Wendy hid in a bush, watching the Roman soldiers in the camp march to and fro, clearly training for some kind of mission. A man in far more ornate armour was standing to the side, shouting furiously at them and throwing insults with abandon. Wendy couldn't help but think he looked slightly familiar.

"Come on, you dogs!" he thundered, "Do you want the barbarians to gut you alive? You are _Roman legionaries!_ By Jove, start acting like it!"

The officer – they were called centurions, weren't they? – sneered at his men and marched towards his tent.

"Centurion Streichus!"

A soldier raced from behind the tents towards the officer. He snapped to attention and raised his arm – Wendy was reminded of the Nazi salute.

"The Celts have risen to the west, sir!" barked the soldier, "The Governor wants all available troops to meet them!"

Streichus nodded.

"Legionaries!" he roared, "Training time is up! I want you ready to march in an hour. Any man who falls behind will be beaten! Ready yourselves!"

"Ave!" shouted the men, rushing to their tents to gather their weapons.

Wendy narrowed her eyes at Streichus as he continued to bark insults at his men.

"Man, what a douche," she muttered.

"To think they call themselves civilised."

Wendy nearly jumped out of her skin and turned around.

There was a girl in the bush with her – mousey and short in stature, black haired and brown eyed. She wore a brown, sleeveless dress with a black cloak, and she carried a short sword.

"Hello," she said brightly.

"The heck are you?" demanded Wendy.

"Efa," replied the girl, "And I knew you were coming, Warrior of the Red Mare."

Wendy narrowed her eyes.

"You've got the wrong guy, Efa," she replied, "I'm Wendy. I'm not some kind of..."

She paused.

"...wait, what did you call me?"

"The Warrior of the Red Mare," replied Efa, "You're a hero. A _legend_."

"No, I'm not," replied Wendy, "I'm a normal..."

" _Nothing_ about you is normal, Warrior," interrupted Efa, "In fact, come on, I'll show you."

She grabbed Wendy's arm and pulled her out of the bush, away from the camp.

"What the...hey!" demanded Wendy, "Where are you taking me?"

"To the temple, of course," replied Efa.

"And I should come with you because..."

"I have a sword."

"That makes sense."

* * *

The sun was beginning to set as the two walked up a large mountain. Wendy looked around, hugging herself in the cool weather.

"What is this place?" she asked.

" _Yr Wyddfa_ ," replied Efa, "Tallest mountain in our land – or as the Romans would have it, _Britannia_."

"So I'm in England?"

Efa stopped and stared at her.

"...what is 'Ingland?'" she asked, "Is that in Asia or something? I've always wanted to go to Asia..."

"Uh...never mind," shrugged Wendy.

They continued to walk.

"Look, you do know I'm not special, right?" asked Wendy, "I'm not even supposed to be here. I'm lost."

She scratched the back of her head.

"Heck, Dipper's probably tearing his hair out by now," she sighed, "Poor little dude."

"Dipper?" asked Efa.

"Friend of mine," replied Wendy, "Why, is he some kind of mythical person too?"

Efa shook her head.

"Nah, it's just a weird name."

"It's a nickname," shrugged Wendy, "His real name is..."

"Ah, here we are!" declared Efa.

The two had arrived at a small cave entrance. It was lit by dim torches on the walls. Efa grinned and motioned for Wendy to enter first.

Wendy had to duck to avoid hitting her head on the roof. She crept down the cave – the air was cold and she began to shiver.

"How far is it?" she asked.

"Just around the corner," replied Efa.

Wendy turned the corner. Her jaw dropped.

"No," she breathed, "That...that's _impossible_..."

She was in the entrance to a large, stone cavern, illuminated by torches and covered in symbols and ancient writing. It was filled with old, bearded men; all kneeling as if in prayer. There was a strange smell, almost like incense.

And in the middle of the cavern, carved impeccably from rock and bronze, was a massive statue of herself.

* * *

AN: Wendy's wrong anyway - this ain't England, it's Wales.


	5. Chapter Four

A bit late again - once again, I had my free time liberated.

No guests to reply to today, so let's get straight on to it!

* * *

 **Chapter Four**

Wendy shook her head in astonishment as she took in the statue. The statue was a dead ringer for her in build, but there were differences. She was wearing a ragged cloak – her flannel shirt and trapper hat apparently long gone – and her jeans and boots were very much worse for wear. Her axe was still on her hip, but she also carried a baton on her other hip. There was a deep scar over her left eye.

"What in the actual..." whispered Wendy.

"You're famous," said Efa, "A _legend_. Perhaps the greatest warrior in all of history."

She stepped forward, standing next to the statue and gesturing at it.

"In Greece they say you're the daughter of the goddess Athena," she said, "In Rome they have it that you're an aspect of the God of War. They say you fought with the Athenians at Marathon, and that your name is known as far afield as Asia. Some think you're divine..."

"They're gonna be disappointed," shrugged Wendy, "I'm a lumberjack's kid from Oregon."

"Is Oregon in the Otherworld?" asked Efa.

"No, it's...never mind, that's not gonna be important for about two thousand years," shrugged Wendy, "Point is, I'm not a mythical warrior, man. I'm just..."

She trailed off.

"...wait, how the heck can I understand you?"

"I don't understand," replied Efa.

"How can I understand you?" repeated Wendy, "You should be speaking, like, ancient Celtic or something?"

"Ancient what now?"

Wendy narrowed her eyes.

"Wait, quick question," she asked, "Am I speaking your language?"

"You are speaking my tongue perfectly, Warrior," replied Efa.

Wendy shook her head.

"Okay, so I'm lost in time, I'm apparently either a dead ringer for or supposed to _become_ some kind of legendary warrior and I'm speaking a language I've never even learned," she said shakily, "Is...is there anything else I need to know today?"

"Yes, one thing," replied Efa, "Follow me."

"What this time?" asked Wendy.

Efa pointed to another tunnel.

"You need to see the prophecy."

* * *

"I'm telling you, Stan, I can't just rebuild the portal!" declared Ford, "Without McGuc...without a _partner_ , it'll take _years_!"

Ford stood with his brother and family outside the Mystery Shack, arguing furiously as Stan continued to demand he get Wendy back. Dipper had said nothing – he sat next to Mabel on the front step of the gift shop, staring at his shoes.

"Then you'll just have to work for years!" snapped Stan, "What do you want me to do? Go to Manly Dan and say 'I'm sorry, my poindexter _IDIOT_ brother got your daughter lost in time and space?' You think that'll go down well? You are _fixing that machine!_ "

"But I don't have the funds! It took half my grant money to build the first..."

" _Your. Problem. Fix. Machine._ _ **Now.**_ "

"The logistical difficulties are..."

"Ford."

All eyes fell on Dipper. He had stood up, his eyes covered by the brim of his hat. He began to walk towards his great uncle.

"I don't care how much it costs," he said, "Or how long it takes."

He looked up. His eyes, red at the edges, were narrowed.

"I'm not leaving this Shack until we get my friend back. You got it, Ford?"

There was a long silence as Ford stared back down at his nephew, brow furrowed.

"I admire your dedication, Dipper," he declared at last, "And we _will_ do this. But we'll need to find the money..."

"Ahem!"

Ford, Dipper and Stan turned. A well-dressed man was trudging towards the Shack, hands behind his back.

"My name is Alexander von Streichmann," he declared, "I am a man with deep pockets who couldn't help but notice that you need a... _donation._ "

* * *

Efa had led Wendy down a small tunnel. It was cold and damp, and Wendy could see the mist of her breath on her lips. It was clear that they were now deep inside the mountain.

"Where are we going?" she asked.

"A sacred place," replied Efa.

"That doesn't tell me much," said Wendy dryly.

Eventually they reached a stone door, lit on both sides by torches. A few cloaks had been hung up on the left-hand wall – Efa pointed to them.

"Put one on," she said.

"Is this some kind of religious garment?" asked Wendy, taking one of the cloaks and slipping it on, "Is that why I need to wear it?"

"No," replied Efa, "You need to wear it because it's cold."

She pushed open the door.

The room that they entered was circular, and once again it was lit by torches. There was another statue of the 'Warrior of the Red Mare' – this one portrayed her with her axe raised, clearly in a battle pose. The walls around were decorated with ancient art that reminded Wendy of old pictures of stone age paintings she'd had to study in school. The one directly behind the statue was the most interesting.

It portrayed what looked like her – or at least this 'Warrior' who looked so much like her – surrounded by others, facing down another group. This second group stood under what was unmistakably Bill.

"Bill," hissed Wendy.

"You know of the One-Eyed Beast?" quizzed Efa.

"He's the reason I'm here in the first place," snapped Wendy.

She walked over to the painting, scrutinising it carefully.

"I don't recognise any of these people," she said as she pointed to one of the painted figures in the Warrior's group with an odd blue splotch on his head, "But that one there looks slightly familiar..."

"You mean the Blue Headed Man?" quizzed Efa.

"Yeah, him," nodded Wendy.

She turned to the group under Bill. Four of the figures shared very similar facial features – one was wearing armour, the next was in a smart blue coat and tall black hat, the third wore a black military officer's uniform and the last was clad in what looked like a suit.

"Who're these guys?" asked Wendy.

"The Clan of Streichmann," replied Efa, "We know little of them – except that they are devoted to finding you."

"Streichmann..." whispered Wendy.

 _"_ _My name is Alexander von Streichmann! I come from an esteemed family of Prussian nobility, and I demand a maxim of...have we met?"_

"I met that last dude! In the suit!" remembered Wendy, pointing to the last of the Clan of Streichmann, "Alexander von Streichmann!"

"If you've met him, you'd do well to keep a wide berth," warned Efa, "The legends say that a Streichmann is a ruthless adversary..."

There was a faint crashing noise from outside the chamber, followed by shouting.

"I am Centurion Gaius Streichus of Legio IX Hispania! I know that you barbarians are hiding her! _Where is the Warrior of the Red Mare?!_ "

"Streichus..." repeated Wendy.

"The Romans!" cursed Efa, "If they find us they'll crucify us!"

"I take it that's not a figure of speech," muttered Wendy.

Efa glared.

"Down the tunnel! You, bring your men and follow me!" they heard Streichus bellow.

There was the sound of shouting and scurrying down the tunnel outside. There was also a faint feel of static electricity. Wendy looked down at her hands to find them glowing.

"Here we go again," she gulped.

The door was flung open. Streichus, flanked by two legionaries, burst in. All had their swords drawn.

"There you are!" bellowed Streichus, "Seize her!"

"You'll have to get past me!" snarled Efa, stepping in front of Wendy.

"Efa, no!" shouted Wendy, "It's okay, I'm about to-"

There was an eruption of electricity from Wendy, not unlike a Tesla Coil. All three Romans jumped back – a stray bolt hit Efa, forcing her to step back.

"What?!" exclaimed Streichus, "What is this..."

"Warrior," whispered Efa, "What _are_ you?"

Wendy looked back at her hands as the glow got more and more brilliant.

"I don't...I don't get...what is even going on?!"

There was a flash, and for a moment everything turned white. Once again, there was that sickening falling sound. Then she landed on something hard.

She winced and opened her eyes. To her surprise, she was still in the temple, although it looked very much worse for wear. The statue had lost its raised arm (Wendy hoped that wasn't an omen) and many of the ancient paintings had vanished. One wall even had graffiti on it – 'BOB SLEPT HERE '71'.

"Ugh, where am I now?" muttered Wendy.

"I think a better question is _when_ are you now?"

Wendy jumped as a middle-aged, brown haired man with a moustache stepped out of the shadows. He wore a drab tan suit and was carrying a clipboard – hazel eyes studied Wendy in amusement.

"The heck are you?" demanded Wendy.

"Professor Tamworth," replied the man in a slight Welsh accent, "Researcher and historian. And you, I presume, are the Warrior of the Red Mare?"

"I have no idea what's happening right now," admitted Wendy.

"Then you'd best come with me," replied Tamworth, "We can discuss this."

He reached out a hand and helped Wendy up.

"And by the way," he added, "Welcome to 1985."

* * *

Dipper, Mabel, Stan and Ford stood in Ford's lab, right in front of the dismantled portal. Stan held a binder that von Streichmann had given him, while Ford had the three journals opened to the portal schematic page in front of them.

"I'm going to have to use every trick in the book to do this," said Ford, "I need every favour, every resource, every little insurance plan I've ever had. We all need to give our all if we're going to manage this, and it won't be easy."

"We're doing this, Poindexter," snapped Stan, "All hands on deck."

"I'm not going home until we get Wendy back," added Dipper, firmly.

"Neither am I," added Mabel, "Somebody's gotta keep Dipping Dots from going full mad scientist here."

Stan smirked and ruffled his nieces hair, while simultaneously nodding at Dipper.

"Alright then," said Ford, "Let's get started."

There was a long silence.

"Your parents are gonna _kill me_ ," muttered Stan.

* * *

AN: Yes, that _is_ a Back to the Future reference. Also, I'm sure Alexander is entirely altruistic and trustworthy.


	6. Chapter Five

I am so sorry this took so long. It's been busy. I'll try as hard as possible to get the next one out (I've been waiting for it for a long time). Hopefully this chapter both answers and raises questions.

No guest reviews, so let's hop to it!

* * *

 **Chapter Five**

 _"_ _...no apparent end to industrial action as Arthur Scargill calls on other industries to support the coal miners stand against Prime Minister Thatcher..."_

Tamworth shook his head and turned off the radio.

"Shan't listen to that," he declared, "It only makes me angry."

He sat down on his armchair in the small living room of his hut at the foot of Mount Snowdon (which was the modern name of the mountain). Wendy sat on the lounge on the opposite side of the coffee table, close to the fire.

"As I said, my name is Professor Tamworth," he said, "David Tamworth, to be precise. I am an advisor to the Royal Extraterrestrial Research Enclave, a military organisation specialising in the paranormal, and I believe I can help you."

"What do you know about my problems?" grunted Wendy.

"More than you think," replied Tamworth, "We at RERE have done a lot of study on time travel as a possibility. Of course we have no idea how to build a time machine – we're at least a century away – but we have theories."

He leaned over the coffee table.

"First question," he said, "Are you at all tired?"

Wendy tilted her head.

"What was that?"

"Are you tired?" repeated Tamworth, "How long have you been awake? Have you been hungry? Thirsty? Anything like that?"

"What kind of a question is that?" demanded Wendy, "Of course I've been..."

She trailed off.

 _No she hadn't._

She had neither eaten or slept since she had arrived in 1805. She hadn't even noticed that she hadn't needed to, until now.

"...what's happening to me?" she breathed.

"I believe," said Tamworth, stroking his chin, "That your body currently exists in a form of stasis. To what extent, I do not know. Can you still feel pain?"

"I...guess so," shrugged Wendy.

"Put your hand on the table, please."

Wendy did so. Tamworth grabbed a fly swatter and brought it down hard on her hand. She yelped and drew it back.

"Ow! What the heck?!"

"Well, that confirms you're not immortal," shrugged Tamworth, "And...could you move your hair to the side? I think I can see something on your forehead."

"If you hit me again, I'm leaving," snapped Wendy.

She moved her hair from over the edge of her eye. Tamworth nodded.

"Slight cut there, looks like it's from a splinter," he mused, "Some kind of...naval engagement?"

"I was on a boat, yeah," nodded Wendy.

"It's healing up nicely," noted Tamworth, "So you don't have to worry about permanent wounds. The rift's effect on you seems to be selective..."

He got up, scratching his head.

"Curiouser and curiouser..." he muttered.

He turned around, facing Wendy again.

"You've given a gift and something of a destiny," he declared, "It's clear to me that you are not the Warrior of the Red Mare – not yet. But if you're going to survived, adrift in history as you are, you will need to _become_ the Warrior."

"How do I do that?" demanded Wendy, "I'm just a normal..."

"Most normal people aren't time travellers, so I daresay you stopped being normal a while ago," replied Tamworth, "And I'm afraid that the only advise I can give you is _adapt or perish._ Prosper, and you may yet get home."

There was a sudden sparkling of electricity, and Wendy began to glow again.

"Wait!" she exclaimed, "Before I left ancient England..."

"Wales," interrupted Tamworth.

"Whatever!" shouted Wendy, "I did this weird electricity thing. Like some kind of electrical conduit thing. What was that?"

Tamworth shrugged as Wendy began to glow more brightly.

"That's for others to tell you, I haven't a clue!" he replied, "Good luck, young lady. You can do-"

There was the flash and the feeling of falling again. It was almost familiar now. Then, with a rather painful crash, she landed on her back on some cobblestones.

"Ow," she muttered, sitting up, "I can see why these things went out of style..."

She got up, looking around. She was in a dark street in what looked like a European town. The windows around her were blacked out, and there was not a soul around. It was very, very quiet – far too quiet, in fact.

"Where is everyone?" Wendy asked herself, "What's going on?"

She turned around.

Her heart stopped.

The building in front of her looked like any other European townhouse – an old brown brick building that was about three storeys high and looked like it might have been occupied by a few middle class families. Except on either side of the building there were massive, thin banners – red banners, with a white circle in the centre that contained a thick, black swastika.

"...oh _crap_."

Suddenly she heard shouting from inside the building.

"I heard someone! Get out there and take a look!"

"Yes sir!"

The door was flung open, and out stepped three grey-uniformed men in coalscuttle helmets, the symbol of the SS on their collars.

"You!" one bellowed, pointing at Wendy as they aimed their rifles, "Hands up!"

"No," replied Wendy, backing off, "Not you. Not you..."

THWACK.

Something struck the back of Wendy's head very hard and she fell to the ground. Through blurry vision, she saw another grey uniformed man holding his rifle butt-first. He was sneering down on her.

"Got her, corporal," he declared.

"Good," nodded the soldier who had shouted, "Take her in. Stürmbannfuhrer von Streichmann is going to be very keen to meet her..."

Her vision faded away and she was lost to darkness.

* * *

Summer had ended.

The trees around the Mystery Shack had begun to turn brown as September set in. Little had happened in the past fortnight or so – life carried on as normal, or at least as normal as it every did in Gravity Falls. But the bus to California had long left, and it had left empty.

Simon and Diane Pines had not all been happy when Stan had rung them to say that the twins wanted to stay. It had taken a lot of negotiation, during which Soos had half seriously suggested moving to the bunker and living as hermits as they worked on the portal. In the end, Ford had had to step in and explain everything – and by explain everything, he did of course mean come up with a series of lies and half-truths to placate the Pines parents.

The portal team was small but tight. It's chief funder, Alexander von Streichmann, was content to fund from a distance and let Ford manage the project on the ground. Stan and Soos worked on the physical matter of actually putting the portal together, while Dipper and Mabel – occasionally joined by Candy and Grenda – were sent out on odd-jobs to find resources and keep tabs on any possible action Bill might take.

It was on one such odd-job that Dipper next saw Bill.

It was a simple mission. Ford had wanted an alternative to toxic waste that was less likely to end up with federal agents on their doorstep, and Mabel had suggested the waste from the Northwest Mud Flaps Factory. So Dipper had been sent down to take some readings. 'Don't worry,' Ford had declares, 'It's probably harmless to humans. _Probably_.'

He had been knee deep in mud, filling up beakers when the world turned monochrome.

"Literally digging ditches, are we Pine Tree?"

Dipper jumped and turned around, finding Bill floating innocently behind him, arms behind his back.

"Bill!" shouted Dipper.

"Yeah, 'sup," said Bill brightly, "How's Sixer? He's not too sore that I got one over him, is he?"

Dipper lunged forward, his hand phasing through Bill as he tried to grab him by the tie.

" _Where is Wendy?!_ " he demanded.

"Whoa, calm down there, Rocky Balboa!" exclaimed Bill, throwing up his hands, "I just wanna talk!"

"Answer me!" bellowed Dipper.

"Alright, geez! You're getting spit all over the place, kid, stop shouting!" said Bill, "Red's _fine_. She's just hanging out in captivity with history's favourite wackjobs! You know, those guys with the tacky dress sense who can't design a suspension to save their lives?"

Dipper stared blankly at Bill.

"I know what you're thinking – Ford Motor Company?" added Bill, "Well, you're close, kid – it's the _Nazis!_ "

"The _what?!_ " demanded Dipper, "She's gotten captured by..."

"Relax, kid, she'll get out of it soon enough," shrugged Bill, "Besides, it works to my plan. She's on a whirlwind tour of the worst of humanity, and little by little, I'm gonna make her lose faith in you fleshy little bags of violence. When that happens..."

Bill rubbed his hands together.

"She's the rift now, Dipper," he reminded, "And all that power would really, really give somebody a bad day. She'll snap, Pine Tree, and when she does..."

Bill turned red and his eyes narrowed.

" **Clean. Slate.** "

Bill began to laugh as he ascended into the sky.

"No!" thundered Dipper, "That's not gonna happen! You hear me, Bill? We're gonna get her back, and when we do, I swear I am _taking you down!_ "

"You're taking me down?"

Dipper blinked. The world was colour again and Bill was gone. Instead, he found himself standing in front of Tad Strange. A name tag reading 'Tad Strange – Manager' – was affixed to his shirt pocket.

"I...I...ah...not you, Tad," stammered Dipper.

He raced away, heading back towards the Shack.

Tad blinked, then smiled.

"What a nice kid," he said.

* * *

AN: I had to have Tad appear somewhere.


	7. Chapter Six

I reckon I've got some 'splaining to do.

First of all, assignment season struck me down with a vengeance. I had to put a lot of work into, as it's university next year and I need to be prepared. Then on the week assignments ended, I got _Fallout 4_. That's not an excuse but I can't help it, _Fallout 4_ is amazing.

If it makes up for it, this chapter is longer than my usual fare.

Here's hoping you enjoy!

WARNING: This chapter contains Nazis.

* * *

 **Chapter Six**

"She's waking up! Get the Stürmbannfuhrer!"

"Yes sir!"

Wendy opened her eyes. Her vision swam – she could see the vague outline of a concrete wall. She heard a door open and a loud clack as somebody clicked their heels.

"Heil Hitler!"

"Heil Hitler," came the blunt, stoic reply – the voice sounded slightly familiar, "Is this her, then?"

"Yes sir! Found her outside, sir!"

"Good, good. Leave us be, Hauptsturmführer."

Wendy blinked. Her vision cleared – a hard faced man with cropped silver hair and round glasses leaned over her, his arms behind his back. He wore a distinctive black uniform and peaked cap – the dress uniform of the infamous SS. His mouth was curved into a half smirk.

"My name is Wolfgang von Streichmann," he said, "Thank you for dropping in. My family has waited for you for a long time..."

"Uh...what?" muttered Wendy, her head pounding.

"Don't play dumb with me," snapped Wolfgang, "You've been around for centuries, Warrior – as far back as before the Roman Empire. You have lived for two thousand years, and I intend to find out how..."

"What, you wanna live forever?" demanded Wendy.

"I assure you, madam," replied Wolfgang, "Unlike my forebears I concern myself with higher powers. I shall find out what keeps you alive, and I will personally bestow it unto the Führer."

"Good luck with that," Wendy replied dryly, "You're gonna be disappointed."

"Will I?" demanded Wolfgang, "Will I really?"

He turned to the door.

"Hauptsturmführer!" he barked, "You will find out what makes her tick. Kill her if you need to but I will need a significant bodily sample!"

"Jawohl!"

"Thank you," Wolfgang nodded curtly, "I shall leave you in the captain's capable hands. _Auf Weidersein_."

He marched out the door, passing the Hauptsturmführer and two more SS men heading in. The Hauptsturmführer sneered as he drew a knife.

"I must admit, I don't know much about surgery," he said, "But I know how to make a sample. Hold her down, corporal..."

* * *

"Damn SS."

Two Naval troopers stood on the steel platform outside the bunker, looking out over the harbour. Below them, the last labourers were heading away from the dry dock. The dry dock here at Saint Nazaire was the only one large enough to service the massive battleship _Tirpitz_ – once it was ready, the northern French port would be used to threaten British shipping in the Atlantic.

The other trooper – who had started whistling to obscure the shouting and pained cries from inside – shrugged.

"Better they be in there than lording over us out here," he said, "As if liquidating three hundred Ukrainians gives them officer's experience or something."

The first trooper shook his head, his gaze turning to the shape of a destroyer heading for port in the darkness.

"I suppose in the Party it does," he muttered, "Do you think that's how they promote people? Kill twenty thousand Bolsheviks and get your own Gau?"

"If it's that easy, I might transfer to them," shrugged the second trooper.

"Get your head out of your arse, Liebermann," grunted the first trooper.

He shook his head.

"Look at that destroyer," he said, "Can't be doing regulation speed."

"Freaking destroyer captains," grumbled his friend, "Think they're old-style corsairs..."

The first trooper narrowed his eyes and leaned forward.

"Hang on...that doesn't look like a German destroyer..."

* * *

The Hauptsturmführer placed the 'tissue sample' he had taken in a small vial, smiling smugly as he handed it to a junior officer.

"Take this to von Streichmann," he ordered, "And see that both he and the sample make it to Berlin."

"Why not simply send it to Berlin by courier?" asked the junior officer.

"Because between the resistance, the SOE and Martin Bormann, it would never make it to the Führer's desk," replied the Hauptsturmführer, "Now I do believe I gave you an order..."

The junior officer saluted sharply and made his way out of the room. The Hauptsturmführer sneered and turned to Wendy. She was still tied to a chair, wincing – a deep cut had been made in her arm, which was bleeding badly. She was biting back tears, but looked up at the Hauptsturmführer with sheer disgust.

"What to do with you?" he asked, "Von Streichmann wants you presented to Herr Himmler – he's always been interested in legends such as yourself. But _me?_ "

His smile vanished. Wendy could have sworn she heard the sound of thunder.

"My father," he said, "Served on the Russian Front in the last war. He lost an eye in 1917 – and he distinctly remembered who was with the Russians when it happened."

"I've never been to Russia," said Wendy.

The Hauptsturmführer slapped her, his face turning red.

" _Lies!_ " he bellowed, "You were there! You let it happen! He never worked again – we spent fifteen years starving on the bitter pill of Versailles, and _you claim it never happened?!_ "

The Hauptsturmführer inhaled sharply and began to smile again.

"No matter," he said, breathily, "What is the saying? An _eye for an eye?_ "

He drew his knife again, poking her right cheek just below the eye.

"I'm sure the Stürmbannfuhrer will allow me this," he whispered.

Wendy closed her eye.

There was the crash of a door opening. Wendy felt a sharp pain below and above her eye, but when she opened it again, she found she could still see. A naval officer had barged in the door, his face wild and his clothing dishevelled.

"They're in the building!" he screamed, "You have to leave!"

For the first time, Wendy realised she could hear gunfire outside. Perhaps the sound of thunder had not been in her head?

"Who?!" demanded the Hauptsturmführer, "The resistance?"

"Nein!" replied the officer, "Don't you realise?! It's a raid, god damn it! It's the British!"

* * *

Operation Chariot was going about as well as could be expected.

After the old destroyer _Campbelltown_ had redefined the meaning of 'dynamic entry' on the dock gates, teams of Commandos had gone ashore, their task being to destroy equipment that could be used to service the _Tirpitz_. Among them was a small team tasked with finding out the reason for an SS presence in the town.

Captain Nicholas Walton adjusted his helmet as his men finished clearing the bottom floor of the SS command bunker. Most of the troops down here were army and navy soldiers, men with little desire to fight for the SS, and had been disarmed fairly peacefully. Lord knew they'd get their weapons back soon enough, anyway. They couldn't exactly drag them back to Britain.

"Alright, gents," he ordered, "Lord Mountbatten wants any files these people have on Stürmbannfuhrer von Streichmann – apparently both he and the Yanks are very interested in him. Split into teams and comb the entire headquarters – if we get split up and can't be evacuated, go to ground and deliver the papers to the French Resistance. Understood?"

There were a series of acknowledgements and Walton nodded.

"Right," he said, "Lance-Corporal, bring your team with me. We're going officer hunting."

* * *

The Hauptsturmführer was swearing loudly, both at his SS guards and at the Naval Officer. His attention was turned away from Wendy.

She clenched her teeth, tugging at her bonds – her right arm was still bleeding and hurt to high heaven, but she felt the rope loosening. The knot had been weakened while Wendy had been struggling against the 'sample-taking' and with just enough effort...

"They're in the building!" someone bellowed, "On our floor!"

"Hold them off!" thundered the Hauptsturmführer as the sound of submachine gun fire filled the air, "We'll bar the door!"

Wendy tugged again – once, twice, three times – and the rope slacked. Her wrists were free.

"Well, if we can't have you," snapped the Hauptsturmführer, turning and walking over to Wendy as his men held the steel door closed, "Nobody can."

He drew his pistol and held it to her temple.

"Goodnight, frau-"

Wendy grabbed his wrist and pulled it up, causing him to shoot into the concrete roof. She quickly jabbed his stomach with the other hand before twisting his wrist and causing him to drop the gun. Another jab to the stomach and he was tumbling to the floor

She stood up, tugging the rope around her legs and freeing them as one of the men holding the door let go and pointed his rifle at her.

"What do you think you're..."

She grabbed his rifle and tore it of his hands, throwing it aside. The SS man gaped in shock, and Wendy used the opening to grab a baton from the downed Hauptsturmführer's belt. The officer tried to get up, but Wendy stamped on his back.

The soldier had recovered by now and had drawn a knife, bellowing as he lunged towards her. Wendy ducked to the right and swung the baton into his jaw. He was floored immediately, his cloth cap flying off as his head struck the concrete wall.

The final SS soldier turned off the door and pointed a submachine gun at her chest – unfortunately, the door flew open less than a second later and a Tommy Gun was shoved in his face.

"Not worth it, son," a British-accented voice declared.

The SS trooper slowly lowered his gun to the ground.

The British Commando nodded and stepped into the room, taking in the two floored SS men and the teenage girl standing over them, bloodied and with a baton in hand.

"Well," he declared, "That ought to teach them."

"And you are?" demanded Wendy.

"Captain Nicholas Walton, Royal Marines," replied Walton, "I'm here to find a 'von Streichmann'..."

"He's gone, Captain!"

A moustachioed man with a Canadian accent had entered the room.

"Probably halfway to Berlin by now," he added.

"Damn," nodded Walton, as if he'd just missed a bus, "Well, we'll get him next time, Barnes. Grab papers and wait for my signal to move out."

"Yes sir!"

The Canadian filed out, barking orders to commandos outside.

"So what brings you here?" asked Walton.

Wendy scratched her chin, trying to think of a reply. As she did, she realised that she was beginning to glow again.

She remembered what Tamworth had said; _"But if you're going to survive, adrift in history as you are, you will need to become the Warrior."_

"Training," she replied, simply.

"Huh," nodded Walton, who was treating Wendy glowing and sparkling as if he was watching daytime television, "Quite unconventional, I suppose."

"Trust me," replied Wendy, " _Nothing_ about me is conventional."

"Good to hear," said Walton, smirking for the first time.

Then there was the flash, and Wendy felt herself fall again. She closed her eyes.

It was hot when she got her bearings – hot and bright. She opened her eyes and saw a desert – not far in the distance, she could see a half-constructed pyramid. Once again, she guessed, she had gone a very long way back in time.

"So," she said to herself, "Looks like I'm going to have to have my own real-time training montage. Who's first?"

She turned around. Two spearmen in ancient Egyptian garb were holding their weapons at her. Both looked very startled at her roughed up appearance – one dropped their spear, turning pale. The other shakily held his higher, beginning to declare that she was being arrested in the name of the 'King of Kings.'

"Okay," she nodded, holding up the baton, "Here we go."

* * *

It was November, now, and Oregon was becoming bitterly cold.

Despite everything that was going on, Mabel had insisted that they were going to have Thanksgiving. Of course she had invited her parents – an eventuality Stan and Ford were not prepared for, although Stan managed through his natural lying abilities and Ford played the ironic role of 'Stanley Pines', the death-faking man who had 'found himself again through science', very well. Soos had brought his grandmother over, and altogether it was a very awkward but ultimately pleasant Thanksgiving.

The only downside was Dipper, still down and depressed at the slow process of the portal rebuilding process. Alexander von Streichmann was a good source of funds, but a lot of the material needed was hard to find even for him. The project was behind schedule and it was tearing the poor boy up.

He sat on the roof, long after everybody else had gone to bed, and stared up at the stars.

"Mind if I join you, kid?"

Dipper glanced over to the trapdoor from the gift shop. Stan's head was poking out.

"Sure, whatever," sighed Dipper.

Stan climbed up and sat next to his great-nephew.

"Look, kid, I know you're upset," he said, "But we're gonna do..."

"If I'd just _told_ you guys about that stupid rift," lamented Dipper, "None of this would've happened."

"Hey, not your fault," grunted Stan, "You wanted to keep us safe, kid. You just went about it the wrong way. We all make mistakes."

"But _my_ mistake got Wendy trapped in space and time!" said Dipper, holding his head, "And Bill told me she got captured by Nazis! _Nazis_ , Stan!"

Stan put a hand on Dipper's shoulder.

"We'll get her back," he said with total certainty, "And you know how?"

"How?" muttered Dipper, flatly.

"Because you're not gonna give up, kid!" replied Stan, "You cared about Mabel enough to drop-punch that Gideon robot right in its ugly flabby face! You're loyal, Dipper, loyal and determined. If someone you love is in trouble, you will never stop until they're safe."

Dipper opened his mouth.

"And before you ask, I know that because I've been there," finished Stan.

Dipper looked Stan in the eye.

"You never considered giving up on Ford?" he asked.

"Still don't," replied Stan, "Have you ever considered giving up on Wendy?"

"Not for a second," replied Dipper.

"That's why we're gonna do this," said Stan, smiling.

He hugged his great-nephew. Dipper smiled and hugged back.

"Now let's get inside before we get pneumonia or something," said Stan, patting Dipper's back, "I don't wanna have to pay a doctor, you know?"

"I know, Grunkle Stan," said Dipper, still smiling as he followed Stan back inside, "I know."

* * *

AN: Okay, I swear, there's a montage-y bit and then no more British history for a while.


	8. Intermission (Part One)

Holy crud! It's a chapter! (Well, it's an _intermission_ , but close enough.)

Sorry this took so long (yet again). I was having trouble with tone - there was originally just one intermission, but the scenes I was using for them clashed too much, so I split them off. Expect part two within the week.

Guest review replies;

 **Guest:** Thanks mate, hope this is worth the wait!

* * *

 **Intermission (Part One)**

Helmut didn't know what he had done to deserve this.

He marched in file, his mind numb from sheer exhaustion. Around him, his comrades marched down the road – if it could be called a road – into the wet fog that seemed to stretch endlessly on. Staff officers, usually Frenchmen, would occasionally ride down the line, checking this and that for their sullen master as the army retraced it's steps. The greatest enterprise in military history had failed.

Helmut was an officer, an aristocrat and a proud Prussian. He had been a mere boy, a standard-bearer, when his kingdom had suffered catastrophe at Jena and Auerstedt in 1806. As a teenager, he had watched that man, the devilish Napoleon, subjugate the great realm of Prussia and defang the Austrians, all while the British cowered behind their channel and the mountains of Portugal and the Russian Tsar played nice with l'Empereur. As a young man, he and his beloved Prussian Army had been press-ganged into the massive invasion of Russia, marching endlessly from Poland to Moscow.

Now, behind him, Moscow lay in ruins, deliberately burned to deny it to Napoleon. The Grand Army was now falling back, returning to the Duchy of Poland, where it might regroup and campaign again.

But Napoleon had grasped for the Holy Grail and fallen short, and now ruin would fall upon him. And woe be to those who stood with him.

Helmut thought he knew Hell. Hell was fire. Hell was brimstone. Hell was choking fumes and sulphurous smell, and the screams of the damned echoing in cavernous chambers.

He was about to find that Hell was nothing like that.

Hell was _cold_.

* * *

The Russians were ever-present.

Every day, without fail, cossacks and militiamen peeled out of the countryside, raking some part of the column with fire before disappearing into the ether. Helmut pitied them – nobody deserved to die after they had already been shattered. There was no honour in harassing the defeated. Yet at the same time, he couldn't help but admire the Russians – there was no food or shelter for miles, and yet they seemed to flourish.

Not like the Grand Army. For them, food was running scarce. Once smart uniforms became musty and worn. Horses and donkeys lay on the side of the road, collapsed from lack of strength. Many were gradually stripped to the bone as a hungry army passed them by.

Still, the rain didn't let up. The worst was yet to come.

Today, as Helmut trudged westward, he saw his first snowflake.

* * *

For the rest of his life, the word 'Berezina' would be branded into Helmut's psyche – no other battle, not even the great altercations of Jena, Borodino and Waterloo, would change him so much.

Before the crossing of the Berezina River, Helmut had been affected by the retreat – the lack of food, the masses of dead horses and abandoned wagons that were inevitably cannibalised by a hungry mass, the constant fear of freezing to death in the night – but he had been able to weather these deprivations. He had been kept going by the distant prospect of home, of Prussia. He was nourished by the concept of revenge against the devil Bonaparte, who would surely be weakened by this campaign.

After Berezina, words like 'Prussia' and 'Napoleon' were empty and meaningless. They had drowned on that frozen river, along with every friend Helmut had ever known. His whole, once proud company lay dead at the hands of withering Russian fire or of impossibly cold waters. Only five of his comrades had made it to the other side. Of them, two had died of exposure overnight, one shot himself in despair and the other two wandered aimlessly into the steppe, never to be seen again. Helmut was alone.

He had no idea what was keeping him alive. It certainly wasn't hope or defiance – these concepts were buried forever in the snow. Maybe he simply was too numb to die.

All he knew now was the snow, the pain and the relentless cold.

Every night for the rest of his life, Helmut would return here.

* * *

Helmut couldn't bring himself to care when he heard Napoleon had abandoned the army.

He found himself too numb to be shocked when he heard the Grand Army of 600,000 men had been nearly wiped out.

He didn't even know who he marched with anymore – some Frenchmen, some Poles, an Austrian or two – they would all die soon, so who cared?

All that existed was the bitter cold and the endless road west.

He was so numb he didn't even see the Cossack attack on his disparate party until far too late. He just watched, as a passenger in his own body, as the mounted partisans charged out of the snow, shooting and stabbing their defeated foes as they let loose jubilant war cries for God and Tsar.

Helmut was knocked into the snow by a horse, but after that, he found he wasn't bothered – his uniform was so faded and covered in snow that it actually blended in with the roadside drifts. None of his compatriots were spared, however – the Cossacks wiped them out.

For a while, Helmut lay in the snow, drifting in and out of consciousness as he waited for the Russians to leave. Eventually, obscured by mist, he saw two figures approach the site of the massacre.

"...can get hard to control them," one of them – clearly a Russian officer – lamented, "The invasion has made them...emotional. It is tragic, but it is war."

The other figure shook their head.

"You must agree that it's necessary," said the officer, "For the good of Europe, we must defeat Napoleon."

"I guess so," muttered the other figure – a woman, it seemed. She didn't seem to agree at all with the officer.

She turned around. Helmut caught a flash of red on the back of her head and realised that it was the Warrior of the Red Mare.

"In the end, we shall all be justified," said the Russian.

The two walked into the snow and disappeared.

Something woke up in Helmut's numb psyche that day.

It would take a long time for Helmut to rebuild his shattered mind – and even then, he was never anything close to the same man who had left Moscow so long ago. When he arrived back in friendly territory, he would fall to his knees and weep. As he recuperated in a Berlin apartment, he began to consider a life beyond the frozen steppe. He rejoined the Prussian Army for the monumental battles for Leipzig and later Waterloo.

But he didn't live for himself. He didn't live for Prussia. He didn't even live for the sake of living.

For as he lay in the snowdrift that day, every part of him frozen, a warm flame of sheer _hate_ awoke in him. For now he had an avatar for his suffering in the retreat – a face he could attach the pain and loss to.

Unlike those who would follow him and who would pilfer his ideals, Helmut wouldn't pursue the Warrior of the Red Mare for immortality or loyalty or any material gain. All he wanted was for her to _suffer_ – to feel loss and pain as he did.

As god was his witness, he decided that day, he would dedicate himself, and dedicate his descendants to making sure she felt his pain.

And that was how Helmut von Streichmann dedicated his family to their cause.

* * *

AN: _ORIGIN STORY!_

Okay, small historical note here - most of the Prussian contingent of Napoleon's Army actually surrended to the Russians and immediately changed sides after Napoleon left Moscow - Helmut here is just incredibly unlucky in this regard.


	9. Intermission (Part Two)

In my defence, when I said to expect Part II within the week I never said _which_ week. (I am so sorry I had to rewrite a bit).

Guest review replies;

 **Guest:** Good to be back, mate. Thanks for reading!

* * *

 **Intermission (Part Two)**

Spain. The Napoleonic Wars.

There wasn't exactly a lot here – it was basically a bare hill and an old medieval tower, but it was an old medieval tower occupied by a company of French troops, so it had to be taken. And if you wanted a job done properly, you sent the light infantry – lightly-equipped men chosen for their marksmanship and ability to think independently.

Wendy had fallen in with them after materialising nearby to them after a brief but exciting visit to the Egyptian Old Kingdom. After clearing things up, she had learned the commander of the Frenchmen – a Spaniard – happened to be a tyrant so detested that many locals had joined the British to get rid of him. So she decided to tag along, keep up that path to becoming the Warrior of the Red Mare.

The commander – some green-jacketed major with a northern accent – had taken a team of riflemen (he called them 'chosen men') around the back. Which left Wendy and the rest of the light infantry taking the front.

"Fire and advance, gents!" a sergeant bellowed, "Keep up a steady stream of fire."

He turned to Wendy.

"We'll be inside soon," he noted, "Get your axe ready, ma'am."

"Gotcha," nodded Wendy, taking her axe from her belt.

The sergeant narrowed his eyes.

"Hang on a minute," he realised, "Have I heard your voice before?"

Wendy shrugged. She pulled off the hook of her cloak and mopped her brow, and the sergeant's eyes widened.

"I have!" he exclaimed, "You're from the _Victory_! Wendy, right?"

Wendy looked back at the sergeant and realised she recognised him.

"Corporal Denton?"

"Sergeant now, but yeah," nodded Denton, "Hey, small world!"

"Small timeline, more like," chuckled Wendy.

The door to the tower suddenly flew open. The rifle major burst out, holding it open.

"What're you waitin' for, ye bastards?" he called, "Commander's 'oled up upstairs. Have at 'im!"

The light infantry bellowed out a cry and followed him in, Denton and Wendy bringing up the rear.

"So, you're the Warrior of the Red Mare, eh?" quizzed Denton.

"It's a work in progress," replied Wendy.

* * *

Egypt. The New Kingdom.

The three warriors escorted Wendy up the side of the cliff-face, the two not tasked with holding her back brandishing their weapons very close. At the top, framed by a setting sun, was their exulted ruler, the Pharaoh, guarded by several more soldiers.

"Sire," said one of the warriors, snapping to attention, "We found her on the site perimeter. She brought down eleven of our men before we subdued her. Shall she be executed?"

The Pharaoh glanced at Wendy – she was covered in dust, more than a little sweaty and sporting more than a few bruises. She grinned innocently at the Pharaoh – a sharp glare stopped her.

"You're dismissed, get back to your patrol," barked the Pharaoh.

The soldiers saluted, shoved Wendy to the ground and marched off.

Wendy pulled her head out of the dust, muttering to herself as she spat out sand. She looked up to find herself staring at the Pharaoh's offered hand.

"Forgive them," said the Pharaoh, "They do mean well."

"No offense, but I'm starting to get _real_ sick of people who mean well."

The Pharaoh smirked and pulled Wendy to her feet.

"So, you're the Traveller."

Wendy tilted her head.

"The what?" she asked.

"The one who travels," replied the Pharaoh, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, "All around the world and all through time."

"I guess so," shrugged Wendy.

She glanced over the cliff at the valley below.

"So what're you doing here?" she asked, "I mean, wouldn't you have a palace or something."

"I'm surveying," replied the Pharaoh, "Looking for the site for my tomb."

"That's...more than a little morbid," mused Wendy.

"Why?" shrugged the Pharaoh, "Death is merely the start of the next step of our journey."

Wendy shrugged.

"I guess so, man-I mean your highness."

"Please," replied the Pharaoh, "Call me Hatshepsut."

Before them, the sun set on what would one day be the Valley of the Kings, and the tomb of its founder – perhaps the most renowned woman of Ancient Egypt.

* * *

Shanghai. 1934.

Wendy ducked under the right hook of a very angry military policeman. The big soldier stumbled but righted himself, and stepped back to regain his composure.

Wendy hadn't meant to get into a fistfight with the soldier – a patsy of the Japanese occupation of part of the city. She had arrived a few hours earlier and decided to keep to a low profile – a few earlier jumps into early twentieth century China had made her reluctant to choose between Japanese imperialism and Generalissimo Chang Kai-Sheck's authoritarianism. That had changed when she'd encountered this thug harassing some local children for stealing from a Japanese encampment.

Granted, they almost certainly _had_ stolen from the encampment but that was no reason to thrash them half to death.

Wendy smirked as the soldier scowled at her, teeth grinding together in frustration.

"Had enough, buddy?" she asked wryly.

The thug bellowed out a very rude insult.

"Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?" said Wendy, shaking her head.

The thug roared. He turned to a cart on the side of the street, tore a plank out and charged his quarry. Somebody gasped, and Wendy realised an audience had gathered to watch the fight.

She flipped backwards to avoid a swing of the plank, somersaulting and landing lithely back on her feet. She glanced around – the children she had intervened for were cheering, as were a few other working folk. A pair of off-duty British marines from the European quarter were whispering among themselves, betting on the so-called 'yellow fellow'. More concerning to Wendy was a Japanese officer standing by a lamppost, arms crossed as he watched impassively.

She could worry about that later. The thug was charging again, and she needed to end this.

The soldier swung the plank from over his head, and Wendy darted to the side. She followed quickly with a swift uppercut that sent him stumbling back.

She took the opportunity, grabbing the plank and tearing it from his hands. She threw it aside before tackling her opponent, flipping up onto his back and grabbing him in a chokehold.

The soldier roared, although it sounded strangled, and reached for his holster. Wendy reached for his arm.

"Enough!" bellowed the officer, "Stand down, soldier, I've seen all I need."

The soldier coughed as Wendy let go of him. He shot her a very dirty look, called her another very rude word, and shuffled over to the officer. The occupier slapped him hard across the face and began on a tirade about 'appearing co-operative to the public.' Wendy shook her head in disgust and walked over to the kids.

"There you go," she said, smiling, "He won't bother you anymore."

"Are all American women like you?" asked a little boy, eyes wide.

Wendy paused to think it over. She decided to be honest.

"Nah. It's just us lumberjacks, kid."

"So you're Canadian or summit?" asked one of the marines.

Wendy shot him a look and he shut up very quickly.

"Let them know," she declared, smiling again, "That if any of these people come after you again, they're gonna be ticking off the Warrior of the Red Mare."

She stood up.

"And believe me – she knows what she's doing."

* * *

AN: I was a bit hesitant about the last one - the Sino-Japanese War and the Chinese Civil War (they're pretty much concurrent) was a long and complicated affair and I didn't want to simplify it, but I did want _something_ that wasn't Western history. Don't worry, there'll be more non-Western stuff later on as well.


	10. Chapter Seven

MEIN GOTT IT'S AN ACTUAL UPDATE

I really must apoligise for my absence. I got caught up in exams last semester, and then I guess I decided to take a break - I was dealing with some pretty awful writer's block and I needed to get some things done IRL. Also went to Oahu, which was nice. In any case, I am back, I am hoping to get back into the proper swing of things now that I've adjusted to university study, and I'll try to get to reviewing the stuff I've been missing over the week.

Again, sorry for the absence, but let's get right to it.

* * *

 **Chapter Seven**

Captain Kamenev winced as the artillery shells screamed overhead. He ducked deeper into the shallow starting trench and checked his pocket watch.

"Thirty seconds," he whispered.

 _God damn it, where the hell are they?_

It was 1917, and Kamenev and his platoon were in a small, hastily built trench somewhere in Belarus. It was a very bad time to be Russian – Germany was decisively winning the war, the government was barely function and the army – no, _society_ _as a whole_ was on the verge of total collapse. This last throw of the dice – the Kerensky Offensive, named for the Minister for War – was starting to go badly wrong, which was driving the entire army closer and closer towards mass desertion – or worse, mutiny.

There were, as always, the tired old battle cries of the elder statesmen in Petrograd – 'carry on the war, God is on your side!' Madness, all of it – God would never sanction such insanity.

Politics, however, was merely academic at this point. Right now, Kamenev needed to focus on getting through the next few hours without getting his head blown off.

"Five seconds," he hissed.

To his left and right, his men had fixed bayonets and seemed prepared to go over the top – but Kamenev could hear the whispers among them.

Kamenev slipped his whistle into his mouth and blew hard. The shrill _peep_ echoed across the trench.

He was halfway up the trench ladder when he realised that nobody was following him.

He ducked back down – just in time, as a bullet whizzed right past his ear – and turned to his men.

"I said _advance!_ " he shouted.

"Sorry, sir," said his second-in-command, Sergeant Brasov, "They won't go."

"We are not," snapped a soldier, "Having our heads blown off for Kerensky."

Kamenev gritted his teeth.

"You are _not_ having your heads blown off for Kerensky, you are defending the Motherland!" he said, "Would you have the Boche take your cities? Your farms? Your homes? Your dignity?!"

The men looked among themselves but said nothing.

"Make way! Make way!"

A second detachment of soldiers pushed their way through the trench. The officer at their head marched straight up to him – and it was with no small shock that Kamenev realised it was a woman.

"Captain Kulibina Antonova, 1st Moscow Women's Battalion of Death," she barked – and at this point, Kamenev realised her whole command were women – "I was under the impression that you were supposed to be our first wave, Captain?"

"Morale difficulties," muttered Kamenev, faintly embarrassed.

"Then we'll just have to give you some encouragement," nodded Captain Antonova, "Fix bayonets! Corduroy, on point!"

A red-haired teenager in a ragged and worn cloak, wielding an axe in one hand and a baton in the other, stepped up. Kamenev's eyes widened.

"Is...is that the Warrior of..."

"Don't stare, Captain, it's beneath your rank," snapped Antonova, "Platoon will advance on my signal!"

The Warrior of the Red Mare sent Kamenev a wry grin and shrugged.

"Do try to keep up," grunted Antonova.

She blew her whistle and the women's battalion advanced, bellowing a cry as they sprinted towards the German trench line.

Kamenev turned back to his men, who was gazing in slack-jawed shock at their allies.

"Damn you!" he bellowed, "If they can do, why the hell can't you?!"

He blew his whistle again. This time, his men needed little encouragement.

There wasn't much ground to cover between the Russian and German lines, which was both a blessing and a curse. The upside was that it meant that the Russians could cross no-man's land and assault the German trenches before the soldiers manning them had time to zero them in and cut them down. The downside was that it meant artillery could only shell the German rear, meaning that they had to face a full-strength contingent of German soldiers.

Despite that, the attack was going rather well. A combination of surprise and the zeal of the Russians had caught the Germans on the back foot, and the vicious fight for the trench was swinging firmly in their favour.

Wendy ducked into a officer's dugout. Two officers and a sergeant were inside, one of the former on a field telephone – he dropped it as she entered.

The second officer reacted first, drawing a pistol and pointing it straight at her face. She reacted quickly, swinging her baton up and knocking his arm up, causing him to fire into the wooden roof. She followed this up with a swing of the back of her axe into his face, knocking him out and giving him a black-eye in the progress.

The sergeant bellowed a very unkind word and thrust his rifle towards her face. She barely managed to dodge, the bayonet cutting a shallow gash under her right eye. She dropped the baton and grabbed the barrel with her free hand, tugging the rifle from the sergeant's hands. She turned it around and pointed it at his chest.

"Hands up," she snapped.

"You wouldn't," snarled the sergeant.

Wendy raised an eyebrow. The sergeant swallowed and put his hand up, and the first officer did the same.

Wendy was relieved as she marched the two men out of the dugout. She had, up until now, been very fortunate, in that she'd never had to kill somebody. _Injure_ them, certainly – she usually had no choice – but she was quietly proud of the fact that she'd never killed. Yet she was starting to think it might only be a matter of time – she could only hope that her destiny, whatever it was, would come sooner rather than later.

Captains Antonova and Kamenev walked over. The melee outside was over, and the aftermath was gruesome. Dead and wounded soldiers in both green and grey littered the trench – one man, a German soldier, was clutching his eye as he was carried away by two Russian stretcher-bearers. He shot Wendy a withering glare with his remaining eye before he was gone.

 _My father served on the Russian Front in the last war. He lost an eye in 1917 – and he distinctly remembered who was with the Russians when it happened..._

Wendy shuddered and shook the thought from her head.

"Fine work, Warrior," said Antonova, "Very fine."

"Eh, weren't nothing," shrugged Wendy.

"How long can you stick around?" asked Kamenev, "My men could use your encouragement, ma'am – morale hasn't been this good since before the Brusilov Offensive last year."

"I dunno," replied Wendy, "I've learned how to delay when I shift, but when I've gotta go I've gotta go, y'know?"

"I know," nodded Kamenev, who had no idea what she was talking about.

"Captain Kamenev! Reinforcements!" shouted Sergeant Brasov from down the trench.

"Better welcome them along, I suppose," shrugged Kamenev.

He strode along the trench – Wendy and Antonova followed behind.

"So you travel through time, Corduroy?" asked Antonova, "Tell me, how does this war end?"

Wendy bit her lip.

"Um...the Allies win," she said, diplomatically.

Antonova narrowed her eyes a little but didn't press the subject.

"And why do you travel?" she asked, "What is your goal? Are you simply a temporal soldier of fortune? An angel, even?"

"I'm lost. Very, very lost."

Kamenev walked up to the reinforcements – six soldiers, all plainly dressed in the standard Russian Army uniform, and yet Wendy couldn't help but feel slightly ill at ease. For some reason, they were setting off alarm bells in her head.

"Is this all we have, Sergeant?" asked Kamenev.

"Yes sir," replied the leader, and Wendy couldn't help but think he sounded somewhat Cockney, "Rest of the company have either gone home or died. We heard the Warrior of the Red Mare was about so we rallied on you."

"How did you know? She only arrived this morning," said Antonova suspiciously.

"Rumour travels fast, ma'am."

Wendy scanned them closely, crossing her arms as Kamenev said something to them about getting orders. They certainly seemed in order – a bit well-fed, but maybe they were new to the front. No problems with the uniform. Munitions seemed in order too – all Russian, with one carrying the unmistakable shape of the Red Army's iconic PPS _wait a minute._

She stepped up, cutting Kamenev off.

"Any of you wanna tell me where you got a gun from 1941?" she demanded.

The leader turned to the offending soldier, scowling.

"Holland, you bloody idiot, I said _World War One!_ " he snapped.

"I'm not good with weapons history, sir," Holland replied lamely.

"Oh, to hell with it – bring her in!"

Holland raised his gun, firing a burst into a Russian soldier standing nearby. He cried out as he was blown back, and pandemonium reigned.

* * *

It was now March - the snows had faded into small patches in the dirt. The world sparkled in the early morning frost.

The door to the Shack opened, and Dipper and Mabel emerged. They carried a long pole between them, a few Tesla coils attached to the top. Ford followed behind, explaining the purpose of this contraption as he went.

"What we need is a decentralised powering method," he said, "If we spread the power generation around, we run less risk of a catastrophic power fluctuation. Plus it keeps the Feds from picking up the power surges."

"Yeah, I think I've been arrested by enough Federal goons for one life," shrugged Mabel.

They reached Soos, who had dug a small hole in the front yard.

"Alright, put her in," nodded Ford.

Mabel lowered her end of the pole into the hole. Carefully, they raised the pole, pushing the end into the earth as they did so.

"Excellent, children," nodded Ford, "Now we've got four more to do today, so let's get to it."

The four began to head back to the Shack, leaving the coils behind. Ford put a hand on his nephew's shoulder as they did.

"We're making real progress, Dipper," he said, "I know it doesn't look like it, but we're going to do it."

Dipper looked up. Ford smiled at him.

Dipper shook his head and walked ahead of his uncle. Ford's face fell, and he followed him dejectedly inside.

* * *

Gonna have to try harder than that, Fordy.


End file.
